Merry
by Unsuspected
Summary: A collection of short, Christmassy stories in varying degrees of fluffiness. To be updated daily. On the twelfth day of ficmas... a chocolate frog.
1. Biscuits and Broomsticks

"You know he'd love it—"

"He's only a baby, James!" Lily said impatiently. "He can't even talk. He can't even walk for God's sake!"

"Then we'll be starting him off right!" James replied with no hesitation whatsoever, grinning, as always, in a rather lopsided manner.

"Sure we will," Lily sighed, though there was the slightest smile on her face.

"And won't it be something to tell our friends?" her husband went on, grinning. "'Oh, you know our son—Harry? Not to brag or anything, but he was flying before he could even walk.'" He gave a short, bark-like laugh, as though channeling Sirius in this moment of great importance. After all, he seemed to think, what was Christmas without a broomstick?

"That's not something you do for their first Christmas," she reasoned. "Really, there was this lovely plush owl, I think he'd like that."

"He'd like a broomstick more."

"Other than being completely reckless, there are thousands of reasons—" began Lily, very bossily.

"The first being that you're too boring?"

"Just because I don't go on flying motorcycles with my best mate and go around wearing lame T-shirts with Phoenixes on them—"

"Those are _cool_!" James cried indignantly.

"They're bad, James."

"They're amazing."

"Fine," said Lily. "They're fantastic. The point is, rubbishy T-shirt or not—"

"Not!" James said quickly.

"—our son is not getting a broomstick."

"But it only flies a few feet—"

"No."

James was fast, as always, to think up a retort, though it did not work quite as well as he had hoped. Running rather low on time, he merely said, "I think you're just still bitter about him taking after his dashing father more than you—"

"I do wish," Lily laughed, "that he didn't inherit so much from you. Honestly, how hard it'll be for him to find a girlfriend—"

"Please, they'll be chasing after him like mad!"

"That was _Sirius_, James—though I don't see why they fancied him so much. The only reason you were ever even asked to Hogsmeade was because Sirius wouldn't go anywhere without you!"

"As if! They just didn't want to hurt his feelings!"

"Must've been acting when the one with you always seemed slightly upset."

"Well, obviously! They were so taken with me of course they'd do that for me!"

"Well, I suppose we'll never find out if Harry's got the same luck, as if he gets that broomstick, he won't last five seconds!"

"Oh, please! He'd last five hours no problem. Five days if we fed him."

"No broomstick."

"Not even a chance?"

"Not even a chance."

"Come on, Lily!"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Fine," he finally said, running his fingers through his dark hair, as though it could possibly become even messier than it already was. "What's for dinner?" he asked at last, as though perhaps the meal may contain a hidden broomstick in the way that a cereal box may contain a plastic toy of some sort.

"I don't know."

"Oh, come on! There's no way that's enough for a budding Quidditch player!"

"We'll just have the Christmas cookies, then—"

"Really?" James asked incredulously.

"What?" Lily laughed, her green eyes bright. "Afraid it'll ruin your figure? We'll just have the ones Bathilda sent us—"

"But those are all _dry_," he complained. "Can't we at least have some of yours?"

"The ones you ate, you mean?"

"Oh, right, those."

"Honestly," laughed Lily. "I have no clue how you're so thin with all you eat!"

"You sound like my mum," he complained.

"Oh, that's really nice."

"She's an excellent cook. Sirius says so too. Though I suppose that's not saying much; he'll eat just about anything."

Lily did not reply.

"So about those biscuits..." he said instead.

"What about them? In some burst of chivalry, will you suddenly begin to take care of the housework, baking and cleaning and all of that?"

"Well, I guess they aren't going to bake themselves."

He shrugged, and a look of sudden horror flashed across Lily's face. "Oh, God—" she said.

"That's right, Lily Potter, we are making cookies."

"If you—"

"If I what—burn the house down? We're wizards, Lily! And not bad ones, I might add. And I imagine few others would hesitate to back that up. We're not going to cause any tragedies here."

"_We_ aren't. But you might."

"Just get me the flour, I've got biscuits to make."

"Best of luck."

"I'm not the one who needs it."

"Didn't you _hear_—we're making biscuits."

"I hope that means you and the cat," Lily told him, turning away, "because I'm not helping."

And so that Christmas, the Potter family had Christmas cookies aplenty, James having made them in excess, though all of them were rather saltier than desirable.

The youngest member of the family, however, was too busy enviously watching the model broomstick soaring around the room to care. There was, however, a green-eyed witch who was quite aware, laughing as her husband bit into the salty treat and winced at its bitterness.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Rather terrible, especially considering that I am clearly American and therefore am not familiar with using "biscuit" as cookie and all of that so hopefully that is right. I just switched them around in hopes that one of them would work out in the end. Thank you to harrypotterobsessed33 for the help. This is extremely fluffy, and the following shall be slightly less so. As it's a Christmassy fic, there won't be too much that isn't fluff, aside from one featuring Neville, another featuring Ron, and one with Harry. Other than that, fluff levels shall be disturbing. Hopefully it's not dreadful though. Because fluff isn't always bad. But I am bad at writing it. And I think the lengths will vary greatly as well, some being roughly 1,000 words like this, and others roughly 500 like the next one (featuring Luna). So, I'd very much appreciate feedback on all of this, considering how unfamiliar I am with all of this. By the way, this is sort of in chronological order, but only roughly.<strong>


	2. Christmas as Usual

"Really, Daddy?" the little girl asks, wiping her flour-covered hands on her dress and beaming. "Gingerbread helps you read faster?"

"Oh, yes, Luna" her father says eagerly.

"Mum was a very good reader, wasn't she, Daddy?" she goes on. "And she had a lot of gingerbread, didn't she? She was a really good baker, I think."

For a second, her father says nothing. He is not, without a doubt, expecting such a thing.

So Luna speaks instead. "She was. I remember. Do you, Daddy? She made cake every Sunday, remember? I remember."

"Yes, yes," her father says. "Do you want to finish the cookies?"

"Oh, of course!" Luna says excitedly. "You have to work on the magazine, don't you?"

And she got to work immediately, tying her dirty-blond hair back and cleaning her hands once more on her clothes.

She does not at all mind working alone.

In fact, it doesn't even feel like she's alone. Because Mum's there.

She's always been there.

She's dead now, but it doesn't change who she was. Mum was always, always there. She was there through scraped knees and tangled hair. She was there through planting flowers and picture books and runny noses. And she's here now, through Christmas cookies.

She's right beside her. Just like she's always been. She's right there, rolling out the dough, and cutting out little men and Christmas trees and reindeer. She's right there putting on the icing, adding smiles to the little men and stars to the trees.

And Luna knows it.

She knows that Mum is right there, that she's laughing and smiling and it's just like last Christmas and the one before and all of the Christmases she can remember.

This isn't "the first Christmas with Mum gone". Because there's no such thing as a Christmas with Mum gone. Christmastime and Mum simply go hand-in-hand you see. You can't have Christmas without Mum, and you can't have Mum without Christmas.

So there she is, baking gingerbread, and it's like nothing has changed. She's humming and she's smiling and she's telling Luna all about a new project she's been working on. Exactly as it's always been.

And Luna still feels very sad at times, because sometimes it feels like Mum really is gone. Sometimes it seems like they'll never meet again. Sometimes it seems like the world isn't as full of color as she had once thought, but rather varying shades of gray.

But it isn't, she knows. Luna knows that this isn't true. Because she _will_ see Mum again, and the world is oh-so-very bright, and there is so much hope in the world.

Because fear and loss and brokenness—you can't feel those really knowing Mum. Darkness and hopelessness and hatred—those aren't emotions that she knows.

And there are paper chains and lights and ornaments on the Christmas tree. Greeting cards and mistletoe and poinsettias. Reindeer and snowflakes and all of that.

And the Christmas cookies are baking and Luna is sitting by the fire and everything is as it should be.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, this is very short. But I like it more than I did the previous one. Not as, you know, fluffy, but not all that serious either. She's ten in this, because I imagine her turning ten after her mother's death and before the following holiday season. So hopefully that cleared it up for you. I never want any confusion. Except for the healthy kind. Because life isn't any fun at all if everything is straightforward, is it? Well, I hope you enjoyed this despite its shortness. Thanks for reading. The next one shall feature Harry in <em>Sorcerer'sPhilosopher's Stone._**


	3. An Almost Family

It's slowly taking him.

But can he help it? It's worse than Amortentia, creating the one thing he wants most. He can hear it whispering to him. He can so clearly see them now—his parents and grandparents and all of those messy-haired, knobby-kneed relative of his.

And gradually, oh so gradually, it destroys him.

It's not real. He knows this. It's impossible.

But there's this small, hopeful part of him. He's still the boy who thought he saw a slight smile on Mrs. Figg's face when she watched Harry. He's still the boy who dreamed of flying motorcycles. He's still the boy who talked to cobras and disappeared from bullies in the blink of an eye.

And if all that is possible, if he could believe in all of that, then why is this so impossible? Why can is not see his family once more? Why can he not make up for the time lost and the laughs he never had? Why can pink umbrellas conjure pig tails, but mirrors cannot mend families?

He can see it.

He can see them slowly coming together before him. His mother's family—red-haired and pale and finally their eyes—bright green just like his—they would appear last, completing the warm smiles already on their lips. And his father and his family with their dark, messy hair and mischievous grins and their many pairs of glasses.

_I show not your face, but your heart's desire._

In a way, such an inscription is cruel.

He can see so _clearly_ his face among the others. It was in his father especially—nearly an exact copy of his own face. And even the slightest of traces of his features are held in the mirror, wisps of his identity lingering on the faces of those long gone. The resemblances are so clear to him, and he holds onto them so, so tightly that he ought to have stopped being surprised when he sees them.

He isn't.

It shocks him every single time.

Her eyes and her long, red hair and her warm smile. It all haunts him.

And he can't get enough.

He doesn't understand how Ron was unable to see it.

They were right there, weren't they? He just didn't see properly! He was just tired. That must have been it.

For Lily and James Potter are surely just as real as their son is. They were alive once, they were! And he is seeing them _now_.

If they are imitations, surely he would be able to tell—he would see the lack of light in their eyes or the slight uneasiness in their smiles. But they were real. Just behind the glass, surely! If only he could penetrate the once-dusty surface, wiped hastily clear by the sleeve of his sweater, smudged and slightly foggy.

And fake people—they could not fascinate him so much. He would not be so drawn in by illusions. They are real, and they know when he is there, and they understood when he talks to them, and they know that it is Christmas, and surely they can't be made up.

And whoever gave him that cloak—they must know, too. They must know that his parents are simply waiting there for his return.

He's never really liked heat. Warmth was not something he associated with good memories. He thought first of the blood rushing to his face as all of Dudley's friends—from even scrawnier than Harry himself to an impossible girth rivaling that of his cousin—tortured him. He thought of the blinding flash of green light, and the way fire seemed to tear throughout the room in that moment. He thought of burnt breakfasts and the way his scar seemed to split his forehead when he looked at Snape.

But when he looks at them, there is definite warmth. And there is no better feeling in the world.

And however wonderful this Cloak may be, he can't quite think of a better Christmas gift than this—seeing these parents he never got to know.

Except, perhaps, seeing Ron when the mirror is moved. Because no matter how much he wishes he'd had more time, Ron—he is definitely real, and he is definitely Harry's best friend.

And a best friend-that nearly as foreign to Harry as the idea of a real family.

And without a doubt, he was quite glad to have one, mirror or not.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: In which it is extraordinarily obvious that I listen to Jingle Spells albums while writing these. ("Christmas Mirror" is quite lovely, though, in my defense. You wouldn't expect those songs to go together as well as they do.) Anyway, the next one shall feature Neville. It's not exactly in order, because it features events from the fourth book, but as there isn't a specific time assigned to it, I figured that it could go here. Thank you for reading!<strong>


	4. Hospital Visits

Neville Longbottom had never liked the holidays. Never.

Well, maybe he did once upon a time, as an infant. Maybe he had liked the pretty colors and the shiny foil and the laughter and the presents. But if he had ever enjoyed them, he did not recall it.

He did not like the summer holidays, nor did he like Easter. He did not like in the least bit mother's day or father's day, not at all. But he most especially hated Christmas.

As a general rule, if you were between the ages of two months and eighty years you were supposed to like Christmas. Unless you didn't celebrate it, but that was a different story entirely.

Because Neville Longbottom and his grandmother most definitely recognized Christmas as a significant day. And indeed, it was how they celebrated it that Neville liked the least.

If you could even call it celebrating. It didn't feel like it.

His presents consisted of gum wrappers (courtesy of Mum) and very much hand sanitizer (courtesy of the Healers).

And all the while, there was not very much laughing. There was not very much food. There was not very much smiling. There was not even much talking.

Simply a lot of awkwardness and even more crushing sadness.

This did not make for a very good Christmas.

"Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad," he would say. He knew they would not hear him. He knew they did not even know who he was. He knew that it was useless.

But he did it anyway.

And a few times he had even tried to make conversation.

"Mum! I know I've told you a thousand times about me being in Gryffindor—still can't believe it, to be honest," went his first attempt. "But I never told you about my actual Sorting. It's actually kind of a long story, but—"

He received no response.

Another time, years later had gone equally well.

"Dad," he had said, "you really like the Wimbourne Wasps, don't you? You'll never guess—some people in my House actually talked to one of the players! I wish I could have been there."

He didn't continue. Partially because Gran was giving him a look, and partially because he himself knew they would never ever respond.

And so Neville added that to his ever-growing list of reasons why he despised the holidays. Because no matter how many times they came, no matter how much he tried, it would add up to nothing but disappointment year after year.

He wondered how long it would take for him to become as mad as they were. Not long, Neville thought. He'd never been as good as them, at least that's what he had always heard. He probably couldn't handle ten seconds of the Cruciatus Curse. He could hardly handle ten seconds of this-staring into their blank eyes in search of some sign of life that had been drained out long ago by Bellatrix Lestrange.

So every year for Christmas, Neville Longbottom's presents did not consist of homemade sweaters like the Weasleys or family trips like Hermione. Not even a toothpick or strange Muggle money like Harry. No, Neville Longbottom was lucky enough to get emotional trauma for Christmas.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm far too fond of writing this sort of thing. Like I said, this chapter is not exactly part of a specific time frame. So I just put it in here. Next will be Hermione's, during <em>Chamber of Secrets<em>. Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.**


	5. A Failed Potion

Most people, Hermione thought, received very respectable Christmas gifts. Sweaters for Ron and his family (and Harry too) and for some of the kids back in Muggle school there were very nice sweets awaiting them on Christmas morning.

But she was never quite so lucky. It was always toothpaste and family trips to places she didn't want to go and, every year without fail, three new toothbrushes in assorted colors (most often pink, blue, and purple with the occasional yellow for what her parents insisted was _variety_).

She did not get sugar cookies or homemade fudge or any of that. She _did, _if she was lucky, get sugar-free gum, but that was as far as it really ever went.

But this did not matter so much.

For Hermione Granger had never really cared for Christmas all that much. Overall, it made very little sense to her, singling out some day in December to exchange gifts.

But she was a bit upset on this particular Christmas.

After all, one does not generally hope to become a cat on Christmas, whether they like the holiday or not.

It was not necessarily that she didn't like cats. Because she did. They were very cute, in fact.

It was merely that they were not so adorable in place of a thirteen-year-old girl's face.

Not at all.

Harry and Ron—their transformations worked perfectly fine, of course. She had brewed to potion perfectly. And they had gotten their hairs just as they were supposed to. They hadn't plucked a suspicious-looking hair from the sweater of a bulky Slytherin. They'd gotten theirs properly.

It had all been going perfectly, up until that moment.

She hadn't been expecting the transformation to be painless. The book had even described—in rather torturously vivid detail—the complete painfulness of it of it. But from head to toe a prickly sensation had begun, as though needles were forcing their way through her skin.

And she knew instantly that something had to be wrong.

Fur was suddenly sprouting from her hands—and likely everywhere else, she imagined-and all she could do was tell Harry and Ron to go on without her.

She knew perfectly well that this wouldn't work out well. Polyjuice didn't work with animals. But it seemed it was certainly doing something. Perhaps she would not transform fully. Or else she might never transform back.

She could not imagine anything worse than missing her lessons because she was a cat.

By the time she had nearly finished formulating a plan as to how to attend classes as a partial animal, Harry and Ron had returned.

And, Myrtle laughing wildly, she showed Harry and Ron what had happened.

Quite honestly, however dreadful this may have been, she still preferred it to one especially dreadful holiday in Australia, which despite her parents' gushing about the place had turned out to be quite unexciting.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So this is rather lighter than the past couple, so that's good I think. Thank you very much for reading. The next one features Lupin, and is more depressing. I hope you enjoyed this, though, despite gaining the knowledge that it will be followed by a soul-crushing piece. Well, not that bad. But still. The fact that it was easy for me to write is usually a bad sign, except in the case of writing Ginny.<strong>


	6. Slight Peace of Mind

It wasn't necessarily that Remus Lupin was used to _pleasant_ Christmases. In fact, he was quite accustomed to dreadful ones.

But the fact remained that there were few things less enjoyable than spending Christmas day as a werewolf.

It was better than when there had been a full moon on his ninth birthday, he supposed. Though many other birthdays had come and gone—several more on the full moon—that one stuck out in his mind, as though it were a fresh memory.

But otherwise, very few holidays were quite as bad as Christmas for becoming a monster.

Of course, he had gotten quite the Christmas present this year. He had not received one for quite some time—perhaps not since Lily and James died.

And he had never received such a present as this—a slight solution. Wolfsbane. He had hardly even dared _dream_ of it as a child, such a cure, and it was still unbelievable now.

Harmless. It was the full moon, and he, Remus John Lupin, was completely harmless.

Well, not _entirely_, perhaps, but more than he had ever even hoped.

And so he could simply rest until the full moon passed.

Just him and a thousand memories.

It was not a comfortable office, despite his attempts to make it feel more so. All of the moving in and moving out seemed to have had an effect on the coziness—a hundred personalities condensed into a single room.

But he had certainly given it his best effort.

Though looking back on it, Remus thought this may not have been such a clever idea.

Alone with his thoughts, he had no trouble at all thinking back to the days Lily and James and Sirius and Peter. Really, the few photos he had placed throughout the room aided him in doing so.

And he thought of those Christmases and transformations and all of that.

He could barely remember Christmases without them—James and Sirius and Peter—for there had never been anything extraordinary before. Family dinners and woolly sweaters and all of that.

But they—as was quite a habit of theirs—tended to add a bit of flavor to things.

There were dungbombs and Filibuster's and even a rather nice charm on a cabinet in Slughorn's class that caused it to sing "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs" shrilly whenever opened.

He remembered how James would often skip Christmas at home no matter how much he liked the food. And how in sixth year they actually all came over to the place, and how very welcoming the Potters were. How they all laughed and joked and how James "casually" mentioned Lily every ten minutes.

These thoughts—they should have been some comfort, some sort of light in all of this.

They weren't.

Dead. Two dead. Another responsible for their deaths.

And he, Remus Lupin, was no better off.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: When in doubt, mention "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs" because that is what <em>everyone<em> does. If you'd like something lighter after this, I think I'll be posting a separate short James/Lily thing later today, because someone on Tumblr requested it. And they're very fun to write, no matter how difficult it is for me. It's also Christmassy, though, because it snowed here and it's not melting. Thank you for reading, and, as always, I hope you enjoyed. (:**


	7. First Dates and Dancing

"You know," she said, brushing a strand of her long hair behind her ear and smiling slightly, "you're a very good dancer."

"Not really," Cedric said honestly. "I think everyone's just impressed by the title of champion, aren't they?"

Cho seemed lost for words, and Cedric continued.

"Even the Slytherins—they don't like us as much as you Ravenclaw—they're actually being decent to me."

"Well," Cho told him, "that's good, isn't it?"

"I guess," said Cedric hesitantly.

"And you're better at dancing than at actually inviting people to the ball."

"Hardly."

"Shall I remind you?"

"It was something like, 'Ball, um, hoping, yeah, please?' wasn't it?"

"And let's not forget," Cho added, "Hogsmeade last year."

Both of them laughed and it struck Cedric just how pretty she was when she laughed. She never really did much of it, for whatever reason. It was quite a shame, he thought.

"Remember the rain?" she asked, still laughing

"Of course I do. How could I forget?"

"You were laughing wildly, like a five-year-old on Christmas morning or something," said Cho, beaming, "and I thought you'd gone mad!"

"I thought _you_ had," said Cedric. "You were so worried!"

"I already had a cold," she told him. "I didn't need something else to go along with it!"

In that brief moment before he spoke, Cedric looked embarrassed. "I thought you—you know—didn't, er, like me," he said awkwardly.

"Oh, yeah," Cho said, remembering more clearly by the moment.

"Yeah."

"We—you wanted to kiss," she went on. "And I just ran off to the nearest shop! Oh, Merlin! What you must've thought—"

She went on for a long time, in that odd way of hers. She, like him, did not always say much, but once she started taking, could hardly be stopped.

She retold it all.

The booth in Madam Pudifoot's and coffee and Cupid. Rain and sludge-covered streets. Hand-knit gloves and rosy cheeks and the way everyone walked close together. Pepper imps and butterbeer and even those blood lollipops in the farthest corner.

She laughed softly as she recalled the way she had left Cedric without realizing and how she had apologized endlessly. And she laughed as she remembered the strange look the shopkeeper gave them and the funny sweater a boy in Honeydukes wore.

And at last she reached that moment in the same sweetshop.

"And you kissed me, then," she said. "In Honeydukes. Everyone was staring."

Cedric laughed. "S'pose they were. I guess I'd be a bit shocked, too. D'you want something to drink?"

"Sure!"

"I'll get those. Do you want to find somewhere to sit."

"No problem," she said, "maybe by the band."

He nodded, and turned away.

"Oh, and Cedric?" she added before he stepped out of earshot.

"Yeah?"

"This is better than Hogsmeade."

He laughed, because it really wasn't saying much, but was still quite glad to hear it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, everyone probably hates this because everyone hates Cho and the only thing people like about Cedric is that he died. So yay. Next we get Hermione, though. And everyone likes Hermione, right? Kloves certainly did... (Bitter? Me? Never.) Anyway, thanks very much for reading. And, if you wish, (warning: self-advertisement her) you could maybe head on over to my newly created prompts forum. Though I won't adore you any less if you don't.<strong>


	8. That Unique Perfume

Really, Hermione Granger was perfectly aware that skiing wasn't her thing. She had been certain of it from the moment her parents sent her that letter that it would end in chaos. Skiing, for god's sake! Flying was bad enough, but skiing—_honestly_!

But Hermione Granger had always been obedient, and therefore replied to the letter at once, demonstrating very much false cheer at the idea. And so her Christmas holidays were to be filled by snowy hilltops and many falls from slopes steeper than she fancied.

Until, of course, she could simply no longer handle the constant fall into the freezing ground. Then, she decided, it was time to do something about the situation.

So she naturally used the education card.

And Hermione Granger was at 12 Grimmauld Place before seven the very next morning.

And she had returned there as an allegedly very good skier. (And Ron certainly wouldn't hear otherwise, because if he did, she would never hear the end of it.)

And Christmas at Grimmauld Place was very nice.

Harry had actually gotten her that lovely book she'd been wanting. And Ron—

He had gotten her perfume.

She did not know what to think of this. And that was certainly saying something, for if there was one thing Hermione Granger was exceptionally good with, it was thinking.

But what on earth are you to say about that?

It wasn't that it was bad, necessarily. Though it wasn't really the typical perfume. Not citrusy or bubblegum-y. In fact, that was very good indeed, seeing as Hermione simply detested those particular scents.

But it was very strange indeed. Flowery. But very faint. And perhaps even a bit of some sort of spice. Perhaps something ordinary, she thought. Or maybe some uncommon spice belonging solely to the Wizarding world. But it was very light. It was almost as though the scent had gotten lost in the chilly winter breeze.

And she was speechless, and just barely allowed the "thank you" to escape her lips, sounding a bit more awkward than she had been hoping.

But really, that seemed like the safe thing to say.

And maybe she lingered a bit too long near the mistletoe when she spotted his lanky silhouette.

(But he'll hear about that the second she confesses her lack of skiing ability.)

He didn't notice, though, when she glanced at him from below the decoration, as though. Or else he thought, as it seemed Ron often did when it came to Hermione, that she was merely waiting for someone else.

She shuddered at the very thought. Harry. Really, Hermione just didn't want to think about that at all.

So instead she just forget all about that complete nonsense involving mistletoe and perfume. Or tried to anyway.

And it was by far better than skiing.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This, Kelly, would be why I never got around to writing that Yule Ball AU. Though I might write it anyway. Even though it's obvious I lack skill in that area. Anyway, for those of you who are growing tired of fluff, never fear, for next up is Percy Weasley and some nice angst. That's always refreshing.<strong>


	9. Potatoes and Pondering

So maybe he did miss his family. Just a bit. Only a fraction. A billionth of his brain was dedicated to missing them. And other than that, the Weasley family had no importance to him. None whatsoever.

They were merely that troublesome red-headed crowd who got far too close to Harry Potter, or as they were calling him nowadays, the Chosen One.

And this was purely a matter of business, that was all, and he wasn't going to get a sweater or sit down for dinner or even make conversation. Because this was not his concern.

Molly Weasley, who was technically (but only technically, he told himself) Percy's mother, seemed to have quite the opposite in mind. She rushed toward him immediately, and was quite far from businesslike as she went on about pudding in a voice quite slurred from shock.

And he imagines that must be where it all went downhill.

Because after the minister left with Harry Potter, and he and that once-family of his are left alone, there was definite awkwardness in the room.

But he remained professional, because that was what he did best, and that was what he was paid to do. He was to keep calm and to never, ever show the slightest sign of worry or any of that.

But that family was notorious for their complete inability to do just that. That Weasley family, who could never keep their heads down, who were rash and expressive and far too loud. They could not be calm or businesslike or anything of that nature.

And so Ginevra and Fred and George they were throwing food and Molly Weasley was scolding them.

And he didn't mean to be rude or anything, but they should have realized that it was his best suit that they just ruined. They should also have realized that if they were trying to guilt-trip him, the potatoes would never have worked.

But on the twenty-sixth, he wondered if there's something he should have realized about _them_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The title of this chapter was far more amusing than the chapter itself, yeah? Well, sorry for the late-ish update. I intended to have it up sooner, but I suppose time just sort of got away from me. But in my defense, it's only about eleven o'clock here, so it's not technically breaking the daily update rule I mentioned. So, next up will be the Dursleys. I figured you'd prefer a bit of ridiculousness followed by angst followed by ridiculousness rather than having it bunched together. Thanks very much for reading. (:<strong>


	10. Not One of You

"How the _hell_ are we supposed to go about business as normal?"

"Well," Hestia said politely, "we can have a gift exchange. Muggles do that, don't they?"

"Gift exchange?" bellowed Mr. Dursely. "What could you possibly give us—cauldrons?"

Hestia was still smiling, which, if anything, seemed to infuriate Mr. Dursley further. "Generally you'd some already," she said. "But if you'd like some—"

"I think we'll be quite alright," Mrs. Dursley told her.

"Is there anything—"

"You can take us back to our home."

At this, Hestia lost her smile, and she suddenly appeared much more likely to aim a nasty curse at Mr. Dursely rather than give him a Christmas present. "I'm afraid I cannot," she said coldly. "And you should be glad. You're lucky. Your neighbors—they could all be dead tomorrow. Most of us could be dead tomorrow. At least you're safe."

"Safe!" howled Mrs. Dursley. "Associating ourselves with you—that's the last thing we are. You're dangerous, you lot. You—"

"I'll leave you be," Hestia said at last. "If I'm so dangerous, I suppose you'd be better off that way. I'll send someone else a bit later. Maybe you'll find him a bit less frightening than you seem to find me—"

For a moment, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley looked hopeful, but Mr. Dursely became quickly suspicious. "He's not one of you, then, I hope?"

"Well, we're not going to expect a Muggle to look after you. We don't need any more deaths."

"Deaths! Again! There you go bringing that up again."

"This is war."

"Well," Mrs. Dursley said huffily, "war or not, I still expect my magazines—"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So this is fairly short, but I sort of like the way I ended it, so I decided to leave it as is. Hopefully you enjoyed. Next we'll have some Ron, full of angst and all of that, I imagine. So that will be fun. Though I apparently did my math incorrectly, because it seems rather than finishing on Christmas Eve, it will finish on the twenty-third. So, sorry about that. Also, for those of you who have me on author alert, sorry for the 500 updates today. Thank you for reading.<strong>


	11. Whisper from the Radio

This isn't how Christmas is supposed to be, not at all. This isn't candy-canes and hot chocolate and freshly-baked cookies. Far from it.

Last Christmas—that was a real Christmas. One of the best Christmases he could remember. There was Percy of course, and Scrimgeour and Lavender. But for every bad memory he could think of for that Christmas, there were infinitely more good ones. Harry and his maggots and the gnome atop the Christmas tree and how everyone was so very happy.

It was Christmas.

But it isn't today.

Because there's no Harry or Hermione or a tree. And there's no laughter or welcoming fire or any of that.

And so you turn on the radio as though that might be of some comfort. For once, he wants to hear Celestina Warbeck's crooning, which is certainly saying something.

_Oh, my poor heart, where has it gone?  
>It's—<em>

"Ron…"

It—that—that was from the Deluminator.

And that was definitely not Celestina Warbeck's voice. Hermione.

Surely this can't some subconscious thing, can it?

No, that is definitely her. That is her voice, and it is very real.

And she's okay.

That's his first thought. They are okay.

And they are thinking of him.

Unless they're just talking about how glad they were that he was gone. That's a definite possibility.

But it's also a possibility that they want to see him as badly as he wants to see them.

And suddenly there's this glow…

And it's like a Patronus, the way it seems to give off this aura of home, like it's bringing back all those memories of past Christmases.

But something about that bluish glow tells him it's more like a Portkey in purpose…

Well, he supposes there's only one way to find out.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay so I wrote this really quickly so I hope it's decent. I kind of like it, because it's Ron and Ron is nice to write sometimes. But the word "Christmases" looks really ugly in this font, yeah? Anyway, I didn't really reference much in this one because I am lazy. So hopefully it's true to the books. Thanks very much for reading. Next up we have some more family fluff for you.<strong>


	12. Chocolate Frog

"Lily, you're joking."

"Am I?"

"You are _not_—"

"Exactly," Lily said triumphantly. "I am _not_ joking."

"You are _not_," Albus repeated, "getting this chocolate frog."

"Because you didn't have the last fifty?" Lily inquired.

"Because it's _my_ chocolate frog."

"Are you five?" said Lily. "Honestly, Al—"

"You can have the card," he tried.

"No, _you_ can have the card. I'll have the chocolate."

"If the card is Dad, then you get the chocolate. And as my gift to you, you can also have the card. If it's not, I get the chocolate. And because it's the giving season, you can _still_ have the card."

"It's a deal if _you're_ keeping the card."

"No, there has to be some sort of consolation prize if I lose. There's no way I'm getting another one of his. He's _boring_."

"Fine."

Albus hastily unwrapped the chocolate frog. A face that looked extraordinarily like his own looked back at him, a slightly uncomfortable smile on his face.

Lily laughed in a slightly mad way, and snatched the frog and the card from her brother's hands. "Merry Christmas, Al," she said, grinning.

"No way," Albus said in disbelief, staring at the card. "I mean, I know you take Divination and all, but—"

Still grinning, she took another bite of the chocolate frog. "Let's have a nice reading while I enjoy this absolutely delicious chocolate frog, shall we? Oh, look!" she said in mock surprise, turning over the card in her hand. "There's some excellent material right here, it seems."

"Merlin, no."

"Oh, come on. These are _hilarious_. Listen to this—"

It was, to be fair, kind of funny. After all, the card did kind of talk about Dad like he was some kind of saint.

As she finished her chocolate frog, smacking her lips theatrically, Lily gave one last smirk and said, "The rubbish card didn't spoil the chocolate."

"If I get any from the rest of your family, you aren't getting any."

"Unless it's Dad?"

"Only if you frame it."

"Deal," she said. "Maybe I can give it to Uncle Ron. Then he'll have the whole set, won't he?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So this is not a) heavy on the Christmassy theme or b) at all what I was planning to write. But I really enjoyed writing it. Because I adore my version of Al. He's quite sweet until someone messes with his chocolate. And Lily's fun as well. Thanks very much for reading. And, of course, merry Christmas.<strong>


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